


Marriage Jitters

by MrsBarnes



Series: Roller Coaster Romance [2]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Bickering, Ceiling Freckles, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Marriage, More Patrick Feels, Seriously all they do is argue, Wanton waterbed destruction, Water Bottle Army, and a little smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2020-11-24 12:50:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsBarnes/pseuds/MrsBarnes
Summary: “Stop trying to lead,” Jonny snaps.“You don’t know how to dance!” Patrick cries. He may or may not stomp Jonny’s foot on purpose.Jonny glares at him and totally on purpose stomps back. “I slow danced at David’s wedding, which is more than I can say for Mr. Club Scene over here.”Furious, Patrick grabs Jonny’s thick neck for a fully on purpose squeeze. “If you think you’re getting a honeymoon blowjob tonight, you are so—”





	1. The Wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick has second thoughts before walking down the aisle.

“Oh god.”

“What now?” Jackie asks in the voice that tells Patrick he’s crossed some very important line somewhere.

Since he’s literally done nothing except stare in dismay at the crowd for the last twenty minutes, Patrick can’t honestly say how he’s gone from awesome big brother to bane of her existence so quickly. He glances down at his suit, tailored specifically for the occasion, then back up to the busy room where everyone he’s ever known patiently waits for him to enter. None of them know he’s standing behind the mostly closed church doors, heart in his throat and sweaty palms wringing around each other while he second guesses all his life choices. “Oh god,” he croaks again, words failing him.

“Seriously Pat, I am not fulfilling any more of your weird requests today.”

“I’m getting married,” he blurts, looking at the overstuffed church in belated horror. “To a celebrity. I’m marrying a _celebrity_, Jacks!”

She rolls her eyes the way she did when Patrick first called her all those months ago, hysterical because, Jesus Christ, he landed a professional athlete for a boyfriend and how was he supposed to handle that? Her answer? “If he’s not out of the closet then you don’t have to handle anything, so shut the fuck up and act like an adult for once.” She hung up on him before the tears could really start, leaving Patrick no choice but to scroll down one name and cry to his other, slightly more empathetic sister. Why he chose to walk down the aisle with Jackie of all people makes Patrick second guess his ability to make decisions. At least Jessica would have said something nicer than, “You panicked over this last week. Do you even have anything left to worry about?”

“I’m going to fucking laugh my ass off when you’re the one staring down this gauntlet of _death_.”

“Dramatic much?” she scoffs, slapping his arm like they’re two bros about to face off a rival sports team. Even though Patrick’s the only one actually facing off against anything right now, and neither of them play sports. “If and when I ever deign marry someone, I will meet my destiny with dignity. This is _supposed_ to be the happiest day of your life. Get a fucking grip on yourself, Jesus.” She slaps him again in the same spot, hard enough to bruise the suggestion into his bones, and Patrick rubs at the budding ache with sweaty—

Pat rips his hand away with a small shriek. “What have I done to my suit!”

“Relax, it’s not even wrinkled,” Jackie huffs without looking.

Patrick still bullies her into checking because, let’s face facts here, he has to look as perfect as possible before these overly giant doors open. He peeks into the church while Jackie fusses with his sleeve and feels nausea swell from the cavernous pit of his twisting stomach all the way to the back of his dry, fumbling tongue. The crowd’s gigantic, sure, and Patrick can already see the Blackhawks growing rowdy in the pews, but it’s the one Blackhawk front and center that holds his attention.

Jonny stands not a foot away from the priest joking with Sharpy, having rolled his eyes when Patrick demanded they walk down the aisle together and snorting an amused laugh when Patrick insisted on walking even if Jonny would not. The asshole athlete looks amazing in his suit and so damn relaxed, as if their imminent wedding is no big deal. Jonny asked to marry Patrick, for fuck’s sake, not the other way around. Least he could do is appear a little nervous. Even when they woke up this morning, Jonny was all smiles and grabby arms, as if to emphasize their differing moods as well as their size difference, and totally unaware of Patrick’s steadily blooming panic.

See, Patrick grew up with three sisters. While Jonny spent his youth focused on hockey, Patrick spent hours playing dolls and dress-up. They used to marry the goddamn barbies in between tea parties, and, well, Patrick got swept up in the excitement. He’s married girls and boys and horses all around his childhood bedroom, enough times to develop ideas about his own wedding from as early as age thirteen. Every stupid daydream flooded back to him the instant Jonny dropped to one knee, forcing Patrick to reevaluate just how eager he’d been to tie the knot, no matter how he played it off while they were dating. He made the mistake of telling Erica, who told mom, who flew down to Chicago at the ass-crack of dawn to bang down Jonny’s door demanding to know what day they wanted to marry, and where the venue would be, and has he found a suit yet? Then Patrick’s whole fucking life became choosing cake flavors and flower arrangements and guest seating charts because Auntie Anna could not sit next to Grandma Kane if Patrick wanted his wedding to end without screaming and thrown plates. Within days, Jonny’s sweet mother also flew down to add her two cents, which ended up with both moms ganging up on Patrick while Jonny stood off to the side looking amused at Patrick’s plight.

Patrick has no idea how it ended up this way. Jonny loves planning things. He makes agendas for jerking off and sets timers on his phone to go grocery shopping and shit, while Patrick laughs until he cries at the predictable, overinvolved asshole he somehow fell in love with. It should’ve been Jonny obsessing over color schemes and honeymoon destinations but, somehow, despite all evidence to the contrary, it was Patrick who became too invested.

Now Patrick’s hiding behind a huge pair of double church doors sweating through his suit and watching the love of his life behave is if he doesn’t have a horse in this race.

“I can’t do this,” Patrick gulps, wondering where his own damn horse ran off to, because it sure as hell isn’t on the track anymore. “I-I can’t walk out there like this is easy. Jonny’s out of my league, Jacks. I can’t act like he’s marrying up when everyone out there knows he’s marrying down!”

Jackie pauses in adjusting the fat bow pinning her tastefully lavender bridesmaid’s dress. “Are you serious?”

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Patrick rebuts hysterically.

“Look, we all know that Jonny’s wealthy, successful, and handsome,” Jackie begins in that accusing tone that makes Patrick feel about five centimeters tall, despite how she’s rather summarily talking up what a good match Patrick somehow conned himself into marrying. “That said, I would not marry that asshole if he gave me a million fucking dollars.”

Patrick narrows his eyes, offended. “You better not have designs on my man.”

“Please.” Jackie rolls her eyes so hard her sticky eyelashes flutter. Too much mascara, Patrick thinks nastily. “That nutjob is the poster child for mentally unstable people. He’s an excessively competitive, insensitive slob who overreacts when people push his buttons. I have no idea what you see in him.” As Patrick cannot in good conscience describe his boyfriend’s giant dick to his little sister, he settles for frowning very hard so she knows what she’s done wrong. “Grow up, I’m sure he has his good whatever. My point is, you’re out of his league in as many ways as he is out of yours.”

“I—thank you?” he tries, because that doesn’t actually make sense. “Wait, are you saying we’re in the same league?”

Jackie purses her lips. “Possibly even playing the same sport.”

Touched at the uncharacteristic sentimentality, Patrick sniffles and moves to hug her, only to receive a sharp nail up his nostril when she pushes him away via his unprepared face. “You are not ruining this dress right before we walk out in public.”

“You almost took out my eye,” he snaps, dropping his arms and his fondness, because fuck this little bitch of a sister he somehow loves. Patrick peeks out into the church again. The Blackhawks have started a game of football with one of the flower bouquets they ripped off the pew, and the organ player looks increasingly irritated as he glances from the empty aisle to the almost closed church doors where Patrick stands like a voyeur. The fear of walking out there folds over onto itself and doubles in size as he contemplates the look on his mother’s face when Kanye’s “Perfect Bitch” starts playing instead of the more traditional wedding march.

“Shit, I picked the wrong song, didn’t I? Oh god, my song is going to ruin our wedding. Mom’s going to kill me!” he whispers, tears welling.

“Mom won’t even recognize the damn song,” Jackie pipes up irritably. “It’s on the _organ_.”

“She’ll know it’s _wrong,_” he hiccups, having lost his meager fight against the sudden influx of tears. A few dribble down his cheeks to smear the light makeup Jessica insisted he wear for pictures later. “Everyone will know, Jacks. I’m a terrible husband and we’re not even married yet!”

“Pat,” Jackie huffs, looking wronged in a way that makes Patrick want to beat someone up, even if that someone happens to be himself. “You give out joint birthday cards and have unrestricted access to a millionaire’s bank account, not to mention the never-ending arguments about who’s going to wash the goddamned dishes.”

Incensed that she would even bring that up, Patrick yells, “He never cleans!” in what even he realizes is a crazed voice. No one understands. Jonny’s a micromanaging, controlling asshole who plans their grocery runs down to the individual items on each aisle, but he also has little to no motivation to take out the trash, or make their bed, or clean up his goddamned water bottle army when it starts taking over the living room like it does every week because Jonny’s an unrepentant slob who Patrick sometimes dreams about drowning in the bathtub since he likes water so damn much.

He’s maybe panting like a bull and a little red-faced when he meets Jackie’s unimpressed stare.

“Bend down, you’re ruining your face,” Jackie demands. Since he actually wants to look handsome and cavalier instead of windswept and ragged during his wedding, Patrick obediently leans down for the tissue Jackie produces off the side table he suspects was stocked for just this purpose. “God, and look what you’ve done to your hair.” Patrick does not look, because no one trusts him to do right by his own head, not even himself. The last time he came home with a fresh haircut, Jonny laughed them all the way back to the barber for a redo. “I’m saying that you’re already married, moron. This is just an embarrassing ceremony to justify signing a piece of fucking paper that’s not going to change your actual relationship at all.”

“He’s gunna leave me,” Patrick tells his shoes. “I give it six months.”

“Challenge accepted. If he leaves you before the six-month mark, I’ll never make fun of you for anything ever again,” Jackie deadpans.

That sudden admission picks Patrick’s head up for a dubious squint, because Jackie never sacrifices anything she can’t get back, and Patrick would hold that victory over her head until they both died of old age. “What are the terms if you win?” he asks suspiciously.

She gives his head one last, aggressive ruffle and steps back to beam at him. Contrary to the beauty of her face, it’s not a nice smile, but Patrick’s familiar enough with her to see the gooey center Jackie hides so carefully behind a wall of bratty arrogance. “All paid, no holds barred, one-month vacation in Italy.”

“All paid for a month?” Patrick snorts. “Even Jonny will balk at that, and he’s wearing a six-thousand-dollar suit right now.”

“Really?” Jackie moves to peek and makes a disgusted face.

“I know,” Patrick sighs. “I told him not to spend so much when his usual, hundred dollar special makes him look exactly the same.”

His little sister scoffs way down deep in her throat like a man about to hock a loogie. “His body’s ridiculous,” she mutters all resentful when, really, what does she have to be disgruntled about? She’s not the one beating gold diggers off with a literal stick. Patrick can’t count the number of times he’s used Jonny’s hockey gear to bodily block some bimbo from pressing her fake boobies all up on Patrick’s man after a game.

Patrick’s sweaty, gorgeous Neanderthal of a man.

“Stop blushing,” Jackie says with a glare. “And don’t tell me what gross thought just crossed your mind.”

“Wasn’t gunna,” Patrick rebuts, because he’s secretly three years old. “Whatever, point is, Jonny won’t write a check that big. Especially when the final dollar amount is still up in the air.”

“He also loves you enough to buy that expensive ass suit for a one-time wear. He’ll pay up.”

They glare at each other but, much as Patrick hates to admit it, he’s about as competitive as Jonny when his sisters are involved. Knowing this already, Jackie smirks and accepts his too hard handshake with a smug smile Patrick wants to slap off.

That finished, Patrick faces down the overflowing church pews once more. His mom has already begun wailing into her hands while Jonny’s mom pats her back and the priest picks his teeth in the reflection of a gold cross. The Blackhawks have mellowed out some, no doubt due to the expectant glare Jonny adopted while Patrick wasn’t looking. It brings out the pronounced stress wrinkle between his eyebrows that Patrick hates like burning, the need to smooth that crumpled flesh tingling through his numb fingers. He wrings his sweaty hands together and wishes he capitulated to having a bouquet after all.

“I’m scared,” he admits quietly, “I’m so scared, Jacks.”

“Of what, that nervous loser?” Jackie snorts.

“He’s not nervous,” Patrick argues. While Jonny’s angry, sure, and clearly running out of patience, he looks far from nervous. Not pre-game nervous, not Olympics nervous, not even left out for the press-wolves nervous. Hell, Patrick would take some about to meet the parents concern right about now.

He bites his lip and shuffles aside when Jackie shoves him over to look through the doors herself.

“He’s started rocking on his heels,” Jackie notes shrewdly, beady eyes gleaming with thoughts that, quite frankly, Patrick has no interest in hearing. “Clenching his fists in his pockets. There’s sweat all over his neck, god, is that normal?”

“Jonny runs hot,” Patrick explains. “It’s a Winterpeg thing. Gotta store up for the next great frost, or something.”

Jackie pulls away from the door crack looking vaguely repulsed, but then, she has no idea that Jonny also smells like winter and hard work, that his big muscles go all slick during sex because he’s an unfair human being. Patrick would burrow into that sweaty beast and never come out if he could.

“Whatever,” Jackie says, dismissing both his explanation and the vaguely dirty thoughts forming in his head. “That idiot took so many hits to the head that he somehow fell in love with you despite all incentive to the contrary. Count your lucky stars and get moving before he comes to his senses and leaves you for a porn star actor with a big dick.”

“My dick’s—decent!” Patrick splutters.

Another eyeroll effectively emasculates Patrick down to the frilly Blackhawks-red stockings he maybe owns. Because reasons. “I’m sick of hiding back here.”

Patrick fully expects another argument and so opens his mouth accordingly, except Jackie gets behind him instead and uses her frankly alarming strength to shove him into the doors. A curly-cue smacks his cheek before the huge wooden monstrosities bang open loud enough to turn every head in the room. Patrick watches in horror as his hand slaps out to catch against a sturdy Blackhawk shoulder, Duncan Keith smirking at him in open amusement, but he has no other options except to hang there awkwardly regaining his balance or risk face planting on the floor. A moment of deep silence gives Patrick plenty of time to blush purple in embarrassment before the organ player jolts into action.

The instant “Perfect Bitch” starts playing, his mom’s shocked expression drops into a scowl.

He sheepishly waves at her while straightening up. Even worse than the look on his mother’s face is the phone Sharpy holds up with unholy glee. Patrick hopes the asshole forwent the obvious video in favor of a much less humiliating photo.

Steeling his courage, Patrick glances up at Jonny. His handsome fiancé appears gob-smacked, sporting wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, the wrinkle of frustration finally gone. An expression like that should express a staggering amount of dismay at the spectacle Patrick just made at their one and only wedding, but instead Jonny looks like—

Well. If looks could turn people into objects, Patrick would be the Stanley fucking Cup.

Jackie shoves Patrick from behind and, breathless, Patrick starts walking down the aisle to marry the man he loves.


	2. The Reception

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick ruins everything by trying to prove he is not Jonny's wife (although he totally is).

Although Patrick managed the wedding from top to bottom, Jonny refused to relinquish control of the reception party’s music. “I won’t have our first dance be to Gangnam Style,” he explained without pity. The bulge of his biceps when he crossed his arms had the full of Patrick’s attention, so he won that round pretty easy. Patrick admits he’s glad when something soothing and decent starts playing and his mom looks liable to forgive Patrick for the wedding march.

Everyone seems happy enough right until the married couple steps up. Watching Patrick and Jonny fail to navigate the dancefloor removes all the stars from their eyes.

“Stop trying to lead,” Jonny snaps, his giant hand attempting to curve around Patrick’s waist.

Patrick grabs and hoists it between their chests instead, figuring that will set Jonny straight, only the bastard uses his superior strength to switch their hands so Patrick’s winds up on top. Their arms knock as they go for each other’s back at the same time. “You don’t know how to dance!” Patrick cries furiously. He may or may not stomp Jonny’s foot on purpose.

Jonny glares at him and totally on purpose stomps back. “I slow danced at David’s wedding, which is more than I can say for Mr. Club Scene over here.”

“Excuse you!” Patrick snarls. “And that’s Mr. Toews to you, _Toes_.”

If he expected Jonny to feel all gooey at the reminder that Patrick took his name for realsies, he’d be disappointed at the furious purpling of his husband’s face. The intentional mispronunciation barely holds candle to some of their usual arguments and, quite frankly, Patrick likes seeing Jonny’s ridiculous body puff up in indignation. He less likes the unfair way Jonny reengages his superior strength by lifting Patrick off his feet. Only a faint desire to retain some semblance of maturity, if not his already sacrificed masculinity, keeps Patrick from kicking his feet like the three-year-old he knows he is deep down. “What was that, _Mr. Toes_?” Jonny asks nastily, knowing he has Patrick at a disadvantage.

Furious, Patrick grabs Jonny’s thick neck for a fully on purpose squeeze. “If you think you’re getting a honeymoon blowjob tonight, you are so—”

“Alright, that’s enough,” Jonny’s dad sighs as he approaches to break up their imminent wrestling match before things really escalate. Reluctantly, Patrick releases Jonny’s neck. Their meet-cute domestic violence pamphlet would be ashamed if it could see them now. “Jonathan, go dance with your mother.”

Jonny grudgingly sets Patrick down and, despite the stalemate they wound up in regarding the first dance, at least Patrick got the last word. He smiles smugly at Jonny for as long as it takes Bryan Toews to sweep Patrick up into another pseudo-waltz. “I’m leading,” he says in his typical no-nonsense voice and, because it’s his scary father-in-law, Patrick obeys without protest. This begins a long chain of family dances, with Patrick somehow following in all of them, including the one with his own mother.

“I am_ not_ the wife here,” he hisses to Erica during their loop where he is, yet again, not leading.

She laughs heartily and leers, “Says the guy in a white tux.”

“I look amazing in white, thank you,” Patrick sniffs, because he knew that would come up eventually.

“You look wonderful, sweetie,” his grandma gushes as Jonny leads her around to their side of the dance floor. “And this young man of yours!” She blatantly grabs Jonny’s admittedly excellent ass and squeezes until his smug smile drops into a look of mild panic. They sail away before Patrick can burst out laughing.

“Grandma’s gunna eat him alive,” Erica notes dispassionately.

Patrick rolls his eyes. “He deserves worse.”

Finally, by some minor miracle gifted from god, the family dancing ends, and Patrick gratefully escapes to the main table where Jonny sits glaring down at a heaping plate of appetizers. The champagne gold tablecloth bunches around both their legs when Patrick reaches over to take the plate without waiting for permission.

“I was eating that,” Jonny lies.

“Literally none of this is in your diet plan,” Patrick reminds Jonny pointedly. “And marrying me means you lost all monogamous rights to your food. Now gimme your champagne.”

Jonny slides the full glass over without protest, having limited himself to beer on team bonding days and champagne only when he wins the Stanley Cup. Not even a Patrick shaped Cup seems capable of breaking his steel will for a single night.

Reaping the rewards of Jonny’s restraint, Patrick downs the glass shamelessly and tucks into his shrimp rolls.

“What took you so long?” Jonny mutters when the music swells.

“To do what, dance? My family is way bigger than yours!” he hisses at his husband indignantly.

Husband, oh god. Patrick nearly drops his shrimp roll.

“I meant during the ceremony,” Jonny huffs, pushing the appetizer plate out of grabbing range so Patrick cannot escape from this conversation without causing a scene at his own wedding reception. That indignity, contrary to the wedding march and his incomplete first dance, he knows his mother will never forgive.

He spots her in the crowd and swallows. “I-I was nervous, okay?”

Jonny crinkles his eyebrows and aggressively demands, “So?” like that wasn’t the beginning and end of Patrick’s reasoning. Like nerves had no bearing on today, which might be fair to someone who suffers the scrutiny of the entire world every time he skates into the Olympics. Or regularly speaks in front of acres of press who then feel comfortable asking probing questions about his personal life before running out to dig through his trash. Their trash, because it’s their personal life now, meaning Patrick may or may not end up in front of those same crowds answering awkwardly invasive demands with a microphone shoved in his face.

Moderately insulted that Jonny does not see the great sacrifice Patrick just made to marry the bastard, Patrick squeaks, “So? We just got married. For life! In front of everyone we’ve ever known!”

“You—” Jonny begins, and Patrick kind of expects him to rage-quit the wedding the way he rage-quit taking out the trash two weeks ago, only Jonny’s face crumples instead, and he says, “You had second thoughts?” all heartbroken and wounded, like Patrick just ruined his whole day.

Considering what day it is, Patrick immediately feels like a Stanley Cup taken to the wrong end of the ice after a bad game.

“No, of course not,” Patrick whispers, even if the real answer’s a little bit yes. “I just—you’re way out of my league, all rich and-and gorgeous and whatever! Thinking that I was about to take you off the market made me a little anxious.”

“I am not out of your league,” Jonny responds angrily. “Who told you that?”

Himself. “No one!”

“Please stop fighting,” Sharpy groans as he drops his big hockey playing ass into the seat next to Jonny, who shoves Sharpy away from him while still staring intensely at Patrick. The older man shoves his Captain back before stuffing a glazed strawberry into his mouth and continuing, “Seriously, for just one day, can you guys not? It’s cute and all, but also uncomfortable and wrong. Married couples should stare lovingly into each other’s eyes at a time like this.”

Jonny frowns his wrinkle of disappointment and turns to glare at Sharpy. “Like you and Abby have for the past nine years since your wedding?”

“Love never dies,” Sharpy sings around his second strawberry.

“Waistlines do,” Jonny argues back, because he literally cannot let an argument go without first throwing some low blows. Even Patrick winces at that one.

Sharpy though, being confident and uncaring, laughs. “A dad bod I may be, but the only opinion who matters likes me a little doughy, and I can still out skate a kid like you any day of the week.”

“Like to see you try, old man.”

The appetizer plate rotates back into range and, when Patrick moves to grab another shrimp roll, Jonny laces their fingers together with a quiet, “Love you, baby,” under his breath like he doesn’t want anyone to hear. Like it’s their little secret in a room full of people who attended their wedding. Patrick flushes at the idea of keeping Jonny all to himself for just a little while longer.

They eat shrimp rolls until speeches, where Sharp and Jackie attempt to humiliate them as much as possible in ten horrible minutes, Patrick’s mom bursts into tears midway through her first sentence, and Jonny stands up just long enough to say, “Patrick made me the happiest man alive today, and I’m never going to love anyone else for the rest of my life,” which is effectively a mike-drop moment that leaves Patrick sweating as he tries to come up with something, anything to follow that with.

“Um,” he says into his own microphone, blushing hard. Jonny rubs a hand up the back of his thigh like that’s somehow supposed to soothe Patrick, when it really draws Patrick’s attention to the intently staring asshole smirking at his side. “Jonny is—uh—He’s—fuck it.”

Patrick jumps him at the table, which leads to catcalls and wolf whistles and Sharpy having to bodily separate them.

Despite how Patrick ruined everything, Jonny looks incredibly delighted anyway.


	3. The Wedding Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Jonny is a caveman, Patrick continues to be over-dramatic, and the waterbed makes his grand appearance.

“I’m not your wife, damn it!” Patrick yells.

The echo of his own voice reverberating down the hallway effectively slices through the meat of his indignation, and he hides his resultant embarrassment in Jonny’s stupidly buff chest. “Alright, Mrs. Toews,” Jonny chuckles. His big hands flex as if to emphasize just how far off the ground he’s currently holding Patrick.

“Dirty pool,” Patrick says while squeezing Jonny’s muscular shoulders because they’re right there and he literally can’t help himself.

“I’m not the one who said it first,” Jonny argues lightly, no doubt fully aware of what his gorgeous body does to Patrick’s ability to hold a rational conversation. He opens their front door with a casual hip-check and sails across the threshold before Patrick can work up a rebuttal.

Finally, after admiring the sheer strength necessary to carry a grown ass man this far and wondering under what other circumstances Jonny would be willing to explore this phenomenon, preferably very naked, Patrick remembers that he’s supposed to be angry here. “I’m also not the one going around picking people up like a caveman,” he tells Jonny’s straight jawline. He’s grown a little stubble since this morning that Patrick really likes. “Hey, are you gunna shut the door?”

“Nagging already,” Jonny complains, but he kicks the door shut on potential paps, which is all that really matters. “And I’m not a caveman.”

“Said as he carries me through the loft like I’m a goddamn war prize.”

“My war prize,” Jonny says smugly. He even nuzzles Patrick with his perfectly stubbled jaw, lips soft and seeking, forcing Patrick to turn away lest he get sucked into a make-out when he’s still in the middle of defending his honor. His dick throbs angrily in protest. “C’mon, don’t be like that.”

“I won’t be if you put me down.”

In answer, Jonny hefts Patrick closer to his chest. “Why? We’re almost to the bedroom.”

“Because the threshold’s back there,” Patrick cries with a vicious point at the rapidly disappearing living room. “You put me down now, you ridiculously strong asshole!”

“Was that supposed to be an insult? Because if so, you kind of missed the mark,” Jonny snorts as he does no such thing. He doesn’t even sound winded after carrying Patrick all across creation, because Patrick’s just that easy to manhandle for someone who regularly bench presses his own body weight.

If Patrick murdered Jonny right now, no jury would convict him. “You think you’re cute,” he growls as he grabs a fistful of Jonny’s hair and yanks. The man has unfortunately high pain tolerance and doesn’t react with more than a narrowing of the eyes, so Patrick yanks again. Because reasons. “You think you’re so cute, Jonathan, but guess what? You’re nothing but a big, fat, stupid—waterbed!”

“Thought that would get your attention,” Jonny laughs.

Patrick doesn’t care what Jonny thinks as he’s too busy staring at the new addition to their bedroom, which he asked for on a whim three months ago. Jonny refused vehemently, citing the absolute necessity of his nap regimen and careful physical maintenance, both of which are complicated by a bed without proper spinal support. Patrick will never do anything to jeopardize Jonny’s career so the dream died the day it was born, except not, because there it be, a waterbed, right in the middle of their loft. “Put me down,” Patrick demands eagerly, squirming in Jonny’s already slackening grip.

The man drops him on the bed without fanfare, prompting a squeak of delight as Patrick sinks into the cool, soft mattress. When he sprawls, it’s like the world jiggles.

“This is _amazing_,” he moans.

“Yeah?”

Patrick moans again.

“Good,” Jonny answers, sounding so quietly pleased that Patrick has to peek at his expression. Rather than the sexy intensity he expected, Jonny fondly watches Patrick enjoy his gift the way Patrick enjoys every gift Jonny gives him, because Jonny always gives Patrick exactly what he wants. “You comfy, baby?” he asks, crawling up the bed.

“No,” Patrick answers honestly, giving Jonny some pause. “I need something to support my head.”

Jonny drolly looks at the pillows mounded against the headboard. 

“You idiot,” Patrick sighs, shoving those meager annoyances away. He lifts his head and pointedly pats the jiggly bed beneath. “Come here.” A look of comprehension briefly decorates Jonny’s face, followed not five seconds later by the giddy sort of excitement reserved only for Stanley Cup day, new exercise equipment in the gym, and Patrick cuddles. He’s an awkward goof with long limbs that knock into all of Patrick’s tender places while they situate themselves. A few more bruises join the giant one left by the church door curly-cue before Jonny settles his huge teddy-bear body in a familiar spoon around Patrick.

He turns into Jonny’s sweaty armpit and moans a little, his back curving between Jonny’s outstretched, muscly arm and the soft mattress. Patrick has literally never felt more comfortable in his life, and he once slept in silk sheets piled with hot women, after an ill-advised orgy celebrating their high school graduation. Thinking back, he can’t even remember any of their names.

Not like Jonny, who Patrick will only ever forget if and when he suffers a traumatic brain injury on par with the kind Jonny suffers on a yearly basis.

His eyes pop open. “Jonny.”

“What,” Jonny sighs, sounding put upon.

“What are the odds you’ll forget me after some asshole boards you pretty bad, and you get yet another damn concussion that you go driving around with because you’re a moron who doesn’t follow doctor’s orders?”

“One time,” Jonny mutters mutinously, “and there were extenuating circumstances.”

Drily, Patrick summarizes, “Your pride?”

“My pride had nothing to do with it! I thought it was a fucking migraine, not a brain injury,” Jonny lies, because he cannot in good conscience admit when he is completely wrong. Particularly about something he feels he understands better than Patrick. So, yeah, Patrick has never had a traumatic brain injury. He also has never thrown his car keys in the freezer. “What does this have to do with anything?”

Still thinking about the four hours they spent tearing the loft apart looking for something that turned up below-zero and broken, he absently answers, “How will I sleep if you put yourself in the freezer?”

“…was that supposed to be a bad morgue joke?”

“No,” Patrick snaps, coming back into the moment. “It’s a—a what will I do without you if you leave me question!” All the air whooshes out of his lungs on one hard, unfairly strong squeeze from Jonny’s arms, which he folds over Patrick so tightly they actually overlap onto his own body. “A-air!”

“Not going anywhere,” Jonny promises gruffly, “so you never have to find out.”

His grip loosens just enough that Patrick can slump against Jonny without sacrificing his dignity at still being somewhat breathless over that reassuring confession. “Y-yeah, okay.” He lays his head between Jonny’s ridiculous pecs and almost tears up at the familiar sound of that slow, steady heartbeat. God, he will never get enough of being snuggled in Jonny’s possessive arms knowing he’s not going anywhere for a good long while.

Jonny eventually relaxes, his big muscles sinking into the mattress one steady pound at a time, until he’s all but a boneless blanket wrapped loose around Patrick’s willing body. Not even the air conditioning, kicking on however long later with a deep bass rumble, can touch Patrick now.

He clutches the front of Jonny’s horribly expensive suit, wrinkling the fabric forever with his sweaty grip, and feels his eyelids droop with contentment.

When Jonny murmurs, “This is the best part of my day,” Patrick knows exactly what he means. Patrick loves cuddling with Jonny more than anything else they do together. Even sex.

Oh god, he really is married if he thinks_ anything_ is better than sex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between updates, everyone. The holidays basically drowned me in excessive shopping and criminally uncooperative ribbon.


	4. The Consummation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Patrick cockblocks himself and Jonny has no idea what's going on.

Patrick yelps awake to the loud, unpleasantly sharp crunch of an empty water bottle rolling under his bruised cheek. He blinks at the unfortunately familiar creature with no small amount of spite. “Goddamn it, Jonny.”

“What?” Jonny yells from the bathroom, somehow already awake.

Patrick sits up irritably, only just now realizing that he’s still in his suit. According to the clock Patrick bought after Jonny’s weird sleep schedule fucked up his internal sense of time so thoroughly he was late to work for a week straight, its barely three in the morning. Case and point regarding Jonny’s weird ass sleep schedule. Patrick already smells the distinct aroma of old spice body wash that means Jonny took a shower. Since the closet door is still closed, he’s probably standing naked in there brushing his teeth, because what are clothes for when it’s more than 30 degrees in the house, amiright?

There are also four water bottles in the bed with Patrick. Just throwing that out there.

“Jonny,” Patrick grinds out the moment he notices. The culprit that woke him up crunches in his fist. “What the fuck am I buying trash cans for if you keep leaving your shit all over the bed?”

“The can is full!” he yells back.

The can is indeed full. Of water bottles, in case anyone wondered. Water bottles that Patrick purposely ordered Jonny to throw out yesterday morning. Before their wedding, after which Patrick fully intended to sex up his new husband all night long.

Water bottles are about as sexy as falling asleep in a sweaty suit.

Patrick goes about solving the latter problem while he yells at Jonny regarding the former. “You were supposed to empty the can yesterday!”

“I did!”

Patrick aggressively tosses his suit jacket in the hamper, followed by the tight button up underneath, the tie Sharpy dipped in chocolate just for laughs, and his shoes, which desperately need a turn in the washer after all that dancing. He’s in the middle of unbuttoning his pants when Jonny wanders out with a towel around his shoulders and not a damn thing covering his naked waist. Patrick allows himself a good thirty seconds of ogling that big, uncut dick before abandoning his pants as a lost cause. “Those are yours,” he reminds Jonny while pointing at the can in question, “and therefore your responsibility.”

“I already said I took the damned can out yesterday,” Jonny argues whilst rubbing his hair dry.

“Then why the fuck is it full?”

The damp towel goes into the hamper on top of Patrick’s wrinkled suit. “I woke up thirsty.”

“You filled that up since last night?” Patrick boggles. He looks between the full can to the four bastards still floating on their bed and glares at Jonny angrily. “And you didn’t think to take out the fucking trash since you woke up?”

“Why, so you can throw a fit like you do every time I activate the alarm panel while you’re sleeping?” Jonny snarls, hands on his bare hips as if to emphasize his point when, honestly, Patrick keeps a huge trash can in the kitchen for just this reason. He even opens his mouth to tell Jonny this, only for the situation to catch up to him in its entirety. They were married less than twenty-four hours ago. Patrick still has half his suit on, chocolate dipped tie thrown across his white jacket no doubt ruining the fabric forever, and Jonny’s standing there naked as the day he was born. Arguing about water bottles. Patrick starts laughing before he can think better of it. “Perfect,” Jonny huffs, drooping from his aggressive stance into a petulant one. “What a way to begin our marriage. I’ll take the goddamned trash out now, alright?”

The thought of Jonny leaving in the middle of an argument strikes Patrick as inherently wrong enough to make him giggle, “No, don’t,” just in time. Jonny grudgingly pauses halfway to the door with his typical belligerent frown, and Patrick can’t resist leaning up to kiss Jonny’s smooth cheeks. He shaved, because Jonny knows Patrick prefers him smooth. He’s also as distractingly muscular as always. “You’re naked,” Patrick purrs, running his hands up Jonny’s ridiculous arms.

Jonny bull-snorts in Patrick’s face. “And your breath smells like a dead skunk, Pat.”

“We’re arguing about water bottles.”

“Because someone here has an irrational hatred for proper hydration.”

Slinking up Jonny like a sex-starved jungle cat, Patrick puts both arms around Jonny’s neck and whispers, “My husband is naked and arguing instead of fucking me on our wedding night.”

The fight visibly leaves Jonny’s body. “Oh.”

Patrick puts on his best minx face, which he’s been told is not actually sexy but apparently revs Jonny’s engine anyway. Or, if not his engine, at least one piston is on the rise. Patrick retreats just enough to begin unbuttoning his slacks. As someone who has never worked in the porn industry, Patrick has limited skill at removing his pants in a sexy fashion. They always drag his underwear down just enough to catch painfully on his junk. Yanking them off hurts, and makes his dick slap against his belly like an overeager, wet hotdog. If he goes slow, he either trips over the fabric bunched around his ankles or removes the pants one leg at a time which, yeah, not attractive. This time, on the sad remains of their wedding night, Patrick needs to get it right. He chews the corner of his lip and slowly edges toward the bed, hoping an idea will come to him between now and when he inevitably trips over the baseboard.

Jonny, unaware of everything except the promise of sex, follows with a much better stalk than anything Pat has ever pulled off in the bedroom. “Baby…”

“Grab the lube,” Patrick decides, hoping to distract Jonny long enough to remove his pants.

Except Jonny says, “Under the pillow,” like an overprepared asshole, because of course he would choose now to go back on one of his many irrational decisions.

Patrick scowls, pants forgotten. “Are you kidding me? The last time I tried storing lube under the pillow you started screaming about not wanting to sleep in a gooey gel puddle all night! You wouldn’t even let me buy the safety capped bottle!”

“I put our bed in the guest room. We can sleep there if anything goes wrong.”

“The gue—we have a guest room?” Patrick asks, sidetracked once again. “Since when?”

“Since _maman _complained she had nowhere to sleep and I converted the second living room. It has two beds in case your parents want to stay over at the same time as mine.” Jonny, having not become sidetracked once since sex appeared on the table, wraps a hand around his big dick and strokes until a fat bead of eager white liquid rolls free from the flush tip. Patrick imagines putting his mouth all over that thick meat for an embarrassingly long few seconds, but his determination to stay on topic eventually rallies.

“Four adults sharing one bathroom will never fly past any of them,” he concludes flatly.

Jonny rolls his eyes. “Then they can rent a fucking hotel room.”

Patrick’s balls may have just sucked back up into his body right there. “You will not make my mother rent a room on Christmas,” he shrieks, because a shiny new husband will never take precedence over the woman who birthed him. She is literally the reason he’s around to have a shiny new husband.

Stymied by the no doubt crazed expression on Patrick’s face, Jonny stops his predatory advance and crosses his arms. “Who said we’re having Christmas in Chicago this year?”

“Says the trip we took to Buffalo last year, asshole!”

The competitive look of someone accepting a challenge resolves itself on Jonny’s face like the wrath of god, or some other very angry deity of awesome power who’s used to getting what he wants. “I grew up in Canada,” Jonny grinds out angrily, his jaw clenched hard enough for the muscle to jump attractively all down his throat. That and his glorious biceps encourage Patrick to drop this argument before he says something supremely stupid and winds up sleeping on the couch.

But let it not be said that Jonny gets his way just because he can break Patrick in half. “And, what, so you want Christmas up at the North Pole? Bullshit, none of my sisters can afford that!”

“Who cares?” Jonny roars, uncrossing his arms just so he can gesture around at the loft like a crazy person. Patrick recoils before he suffers an unintentional smack to the face. “We did Buffalo last year, it’s only fair we celebrate in my hometown this year.”

Patrick rolls his head back and yells wordlessly at the ceiling, frustrated beyond belief at this moron who’s had money so long he forgets the value of a dollar. The Kanes make decent wage doing odd jobs that suit their personalities, but none of them have the liquid cash to fly out of town for the holidays, never mind to another country. For god’s sake, Erica is still in college! She can barely afford ramen dinners. “Jonny,” he growls, trying to keep his temper in check lest he explode all over their bedroom, “You can afford to fly your family anywhere.”

“Exactly,” Jonny snarls back. “What the fuck are we even arguing about?”

“We’re arguing about transporting half a dozen people across the continent for a bullshit reason!”

“What, so you want your parents and sisters to road trip, is that it?” Jonny demands out of left field, still flapping his baseball mitts around like this is game seven of the finals and he just needs one more goal to win. “Jesus, Pat, none of them know how to drive in the snow!”

“Buffalo gets snow!” Patrick reminds Jonny, because Jonny sometimes forgets that the world isn’t separated into amazing tropical paradises and Canada.

“Oh my god,” Jonny groans, hanging his head so he can breathe hard at the floor like it’s done him some unconscionable wrong when, honestly, Patrick’s the wronged one here. “It’s not about the fucking snow, or even the goddamn drive! If your parents want to drive, I won’t stop them, but I’m telling you that a trip up north will end with someone fishtailing on black ice. It’s smarter to fly!”

“Hence us staying in Chicago. My family can’t afford that flight, Jonny.”

Jonny picks his head up with a frown. “Yes, we can.”

Now it’s Patrick’s turn to grind his teeth. He hopes its half as intimidating as when Jonny does the same, but, considering his lacking muscle mass, he doubts he passes muster to intimidate a five-year-old girl into giving up her ice cream. “Sure, yeah, _we_ can. _My family_ can’t.”

“Why do you keep saying that!” Jonny yells.

“Saying what!” Patrick yells back.

Jonny glares at him and says, slow like he thinks Patrick’s stupid, “_Our _family, Pat. It’s our fucking family now.” Every word Patrick planned to say in response jams up against his teeth in a pile up of offensively worded grammar and expletives. “My summer house will fit everyone with room to spare,” Jonny continues obliviously, arms still flying around all over the place because he’s dramatic and aggressive and perfect. “I’ll even rent some cars so you can drive around in the six-foot snow fall, if that will make you happy. Just, whatever weird shit is going through your head right now about the holidays, can we put it aside until _actual_ Christmas?”

“Our family?” Patrick asks, voice suddenly small.

Jonny squints at him angrily. “Did you seriously forget that we’re married?”

Point of fact, this whole argument started because Patrick desperately wanted to consummate their wedding just to say he did the deed on a waterbed. The repercussions of their marriage, on the other hand, Patrick totally forgot. He shivers to remember anew that they’re married. He can call Andree mom if he wants to. He can introduce David’s lovely supermodel wife as his sister, and call Jonny’s dad begging for birthday advice, because what do you buy a rich Canadian athlete anyway? “You,” he begins, swallowing weakly, “you’d fly my family to Canada?”

Jonny stares at Patrick, his face one big ‘duh.’

“E-even grandma?”

“I,” Jonny begins pointedly, “will straight up buy a private jet before I make my husband spend the holidays away from his parents. Okay?”

“Fuck me,” Patrick breathes, so helplessly in love with this man he doesn’t know what to do with himself. He still wants to drown Jonny in the bathtub for leaving all these damn water bottles everywhere but, more than the persistent, sometimes homicidal need to domesticate this wild beast he somehow tolerates, Patrick can’t imagine loving anyone even half as much as he loves Jonny.

Even when Jonny says, “I was trying to,” in an irritated voice with a very sharp glance at his somehow still raging boner.

Patrick, too, looks down at that glorious dick. “Arguing turns you on, I should have known.”

Jonny stalks across the room and literally pushes Patrick onto the bed. The lush water almost lurches Patrick back to the floor before Jonny mounts up. All his earlier agonizing about how to remove his pants ends with a yank that, yeah, snaps his erection against his belly with an embarrassingly wet noise. Except then Jonny’s giant bear paw wraps around his entire crotch, squeezing down with perfect pressure, and Patrick forgets himself. “Jonny,” he whines, caught between the urge to buck into that hand or demand they move on to the main event already. The tickling brush of a thumb against his throbbing hole decides that conundrum. “Stop teasing!”

“_I’m_ teasing?” Jonny husks, thumb pressing harder. The tip slips in just enough to make Patrick gasp. “Seriously? I’m not the one bringing up our parents.”

“You are now!”

“Because you did first! I only—” Since they spent quite enough time talking about their parents on their wedding night, Patrick silences that argument by reaching down for his own handful. Luckily for him, the obsessive office building masquerading as Jonny’s personality prioritizes sex well above winning petty arguments. After a moment of deep, erotic breathing, their gazes locked in a dominance battle Patrick knows he’s going to win, Jonny’s indignant expression finally darkens into sexy animal lust, and his long arm burrows under the pillow for their stash of lube.

They manage to consummate the wedding just shy of sunrise.


	5. Day One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wanton waterbed destruction hath finally arrived.

“Ouch.”

“Is it another water bottle,” Jonny grunts unenthusiastically.

Patrick rolls across the tumultuous waterbed to watch all of Jonny’s big muscles flex as he aggressively loads his army into a trash bag. “My body hurts.”

“How terrible,” Jonny says in a voice bordering on energetic, if the border was about three thousand miles away from the finish line. He rolls his round athlete shoulders as if to work out the sting Patrick left more than energetically a few hours ago, having clawed at Jonny while screaming some rather pornographic lines that should never have seen the light of day. In fact, their activity was so vigorous that a few water bottles rattled under the bed, forcing Jonny down on his knees to retrieve them.

His ass, encased only in the thinnest of blue boxers, quickly catches Patrick’s attention. “Jonny.”

“What?” his voice demands irritably from the floor.

“I’m horny.”

“You _just_ said you were in pain.”

Patrick inches his aching body to the end of the bed and peers over, where Jonny’s somehow already glaring at him. “That was then,” he informs Jonny imperiously.

“Fine,” Jonny huffs like having sex with Patrick is some kind of chore, despite how very much they both enjoy it. “Let me toss this bag and grab a snack.” He surges up and walks out of the room without a backwards glance at Patrick’s enraged pout. Clearly the fucked-up office building also prioritizes food over sex. Patrick creaks over onto his back and counts the ceiling freckles, which he secretly places with a permanent marker whenever Jonny isn’t looking. Somehow, Jonny has yet to notice Patrick’s continuous defacement of their property. Probably because he sleeps face down, if Patrick is being honest, but Patrick also likes to think he’s just that sneaky. Like a ninja.

He’s on freckle seventy-one when Jonny wanders back in with an armful of food and—

“No,” Patrick barks.

“I’m thirsty,” Jonny says defensively while dropping a six pack of extra-large water bottles on the nightstand. At least he also brought Patrick a Dr. Pepper.

Not that his thoughtfulness in any way reimburses the horror currently coursing through Patrick’s veins. He’s started seeing those damn Arrowheads in his nightmares. “You just emptied our room, Jonny, come on!”

“What else am I supposed to drink?” he asks rhetorically. They both know he only drinks water or, if he’s feeling frisky, Gatorade. Zero, because he’s that much of a freak.

Luckily, Patrick has a pre-prepared answer for this.

“The industrial sized, non-disposable water bottle I bought you for your birthday.”

“Tastes like metal,” Jonny admits through a moody frown. He crawls up the waterbed with easy grace and flops beside Patrick like he still expects sex after bringing the forbidden talisman into their bedroom and lying about enjoying his birthday gift for four whole months.

Joke’s on him, there’s still Christmas. “I will buy you a thousand plastic ones then.”

“They’re already plastic, babe,” Jonny argues reasonably. “Besides, do you know how many unhealthy contaminants tap water picks up between the water company and our sink?” Patrick has heard this argument before and, yeah, the water tastes a little metallic. It’s still water and, according to Jonny himself, high-performance athletes need more water than the average human. Patrick does not believe all these weird, convoluted arguments for shit. Sadly, Jonny will not be deterred when he hops on the argument train, and Patrick rifles through the office building’s priority levels before going the obvious route. Jonny makes a shocked sound when Patrick slams their mouths together, but he starts kissing back immediately with a mumbled, “We’re not finished.”

“You wanna talk about water or have sex again?”

“I wanted to eat,” Jonny reminds Patrick between aggressive vampire bites to Patrick’s neck.

Wryly, Patrick asks, “The chips or me?”

“Ideally both,” Jonny replies with Patrick’s skin still in his mouth. While not sexy by any means, Patrick feels a ridiculous wave of fondness drown him in a murky sea of heart-shaped fish that reminds him, hey, it’s not all about sex. He married this high-performance moron.

“C’mon off,” he says, detaching Jonny with much effort. The dude’s stupid strong. “Food first. The sex can wait.”

Jonny glares at Patrick accusingly and grumbles, “It’s like you’re bipolar.” Patrick should probably feel offended, but he’s aching pleasantly in the arms of his husband and can’t find the energy to argue anymore. He leans over Jonny for the Dr. Pepper and a bag of conveniently placed potato chips. Jonny watches Patrick rip into their pseudo-lunch before heaving an overdramatic sigh and going for his carrots. By the time Patrick has finished his soda, Jonny has drunk half the water bottles and stolen exactly three chips from Patrick’s bag. They share a candy bar Patrick that always keeps stocked in the nightstand, trading sweet bites for kisses that keep the mood humming. Although they still have water and another glorious bag of guilt chips, Jonny unilaterally decides snack time ends with the candy bar and rolls on top of Patrick staring pointedly.

Patrick smears the remaining chocolate across Jonny’s bottom lip. “Mmh, sexy,” he teases.

“I have chocolate sauce in the fridge,” Jonny admits like it’s a shameful crime. Since Jonny rarely indulges in, well, anything, Patrick knows Jonny bought the sauce for him. Probably because there’s a matching carton of ice cream hiding in the freezer.

Still, what an image. Patrick does love his man all slick and tasty.

“Later,” Patrick decides regretfully when he realizes the kitchen is halfway across the loft. He hooks his arms around Jonny’s neck and pulls until the behemoth deigns to lower onto his Popeye forearms for a sweet kiss. Patrick slowly spreads his knees until Jonny slips between them, his pretty abdominals flexing to make the landing easy.

“Lube?” Jonny asks, one paw already groping around.

Patrick pulls back to glare at Jonny angrily. “Really? Exactly when do you think I had time to shower that shit out of me?”

“I’m starting to understand what Sharp meant when he called you Sassy Patty the other day.”

The disgust Patrick feels at that statement cannot go unvoiced. “Are you honestly listening to the advice of a man who calls another grown man Peek-a-boo?”

Jonny smirks and answers, “Not his fault you’re short.”

Patrick adopts an offended frown, teetering between indignation at this ongoing and unfair tease or the reality that his erection has gone somewhat purple after waiting so damn long, and finally says, “You are _so lucky_ you have a big dick.”

As if he knows he won that round which, he didn’t, Patrick just deferred argument to a later date, Jonny follows up that extremely accurate burn with a throaty, “Condom?”

He’s been asking that since day one and, up until this very moment, Patrick has always had a few on hand. STD’s are a thing in gay culture, the same way unwanted babies are a thing in straight culture, and Patrick has never in his life been stupid enough to risk either. Neither of them thought to get tested in the past year, which didn’t actually occur to Patrick until now, but staring up at Jonny’s waiting face makes Patrick reconsider where he plans to go from here. He has always used a condom. Always. Patrick has no idea if he even likes it bare.

But who better to test this theory with than his husband?

“No,” he decides, quietly, unable to relish the shock on Jonny’s face when his heart is clamoring so hard. “No, just—just put it in, okay?”

“Yeah?”

“What are you waiting for, another Cup? Do it before I change my mind!”

Jonny jolts like he’s been electrocuted and wastes no more time guiding himself home. It’s hot and slippery and weirdly intimate, with Jonny’s eyes wide and Patrick gulping for breath every time he feels Jonny’s heartbeat throbbing inside him, unnoticed before because the damn condoms are so fucking thick. Patrick doesn’t realize he’s being kind of loud until Jonny groans “Baby, the neighbors will hear.”

“Fuck the neighbors!” Patrick yelps. He grabs two overflowing handfuls of Jonny’s ass and throws his head back. “Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop!”

“Okay,” Jonny promises raggedly, thrusting so hard the bed begins to snap against the wall. Patrick feels something deep down inside his stomach give a little and then Jonny’s there, right there where Patrick loves it the most, and Jonny’s panting, “Whatever you want, baby, whatever—”

He’s interrupted by this weird popping sound, and Patrick has a moment to curse whatever fucking thing decided to ruin the best sex Patrick has ever had before the bed deflates unceremoniously. A wave of ice-cold water carries him and Jonny into the wall, Jonny rolling just enough to take the brunt of the impact on his shoulder. His grunt precludes the ridiculously weird sensation of his erection ripping from Patrick’s ass with unnecessary force, and Patrick cries out at the sudden, shocking pain. They both freeze in the inch-deep water, terrified to move lest they somehow make the situation worse.

After a moment of shocked silence, Jonny snarls, “I knew that bed was a bad fucking idea.”

“My ass,” Patrick whimpers, focused on the prickling ache usually indicative of tearing. Each painful throb is a stark reminder of exactly how large an object just tore out of him.

“My dick,” Jonny snaps, unsympathetic, “and my back, and _my_ fucking ass, and—”

“You have a higher pain tolerance than me!”

“I still feel it, for fuck’s sake!” He carefully rises on one elbow and looks over his shoulder at the crimson bruise visibly swelling there. His softening dick, now that Patrick has the capacity to notice, does look pretty raw. Large and raw. Patrick’s hole twitches protest at ever having that inside him ever again. He tries squirming around to feel the damage and hears a disgusting slop from the carpet. “And now the floor’s all fucking wet! Dolores is probably on the phone with management already.”

Patrick huffs, having forgotten about their crotchety downstairs neighbor, and mutters, “Good thing you’re rich.”

“Oh, I’m making you write that check,” Jonny vows menacingly.

Since Patrick wanted the waterbed, and made Jonny fuck him bare, and yelled at him not to stop, he figures that’s a perfectly valid demand to make in this situation. “Man,” he sighs, creaking up onto his knees, “and that was some of the best sex we’ve ever had.”

Jonny sits up with enviable ease, strong abdominals doing all the work while he rolls his bruised shoulder in slow, assessing circles. A small wince tells Patrick more about the damage than the red bruising ever could. “I need to call the team, get the doc out here. Can you have management send a cleanup crew?”

“Sure, yeah, I can do that,” Patrick agrees morosely. He hates management. The sleazy assholes croon over Jonny’s large bank account, easily the wealthiest person living in this damn building, then sneer about the gay tenants when they think Patrick somehow gone hard of hearing. Jonny doesn’t particularly care so long as the comments stay prejudiced rather than incendiary, but Patrick balks at even the idea of giving them Jonny’s hard-earned money. He bites his lip against reigniting this old argument while Jonny’s still rotating his injured shoulder. “I’m going to find some clothes first.”

“Call first, no one will know you’re naked over the phone,” Jonny complains.

“I’ll know, asshole. And, considering our luck, fucking Tweedle Dee and Dumb will come up here to assess the damage themselves. I’m not gunna let them see my aching ass _or_ your big fucking horse cock.” Patrick waddles into the closet and finds some pants for them both, feet slurping in their usually plush carpet. Jonny’s plethora of leather shoes now sits in an inch of nasty bed water that makes Patrick feel even more guilty at this predicament they wound up in, and he moves the shoes off the floor one set at a time despite the stinging complaint from his hips.

Out in the bedroom, he hears Jonny stand up in the squishy carpet and pad around for a brief moment, no doubt hunting for his cell phone. “What the fuck’s taking so long, Pat? Do you want the water to soak through?”

Already irritable, Patrick snaps, “If it pisses off Dolores? Abso-fucking-lutely.”

Jonny grunts a low acknowledgment. Neither of them especially like Dolores. “I’m buying a goddamn house.”

Done saving Jonny’s expensive shoes, Patrick waddles to the drawers and pulls out the loosest pair of sweatpants they own. They’re ostensibly for Jonny when he works out but, since he prefers exercising in his underwear like a nutjob, Patrick wears them as kicking-around pants. He creaks into them one leg at a time and forgoes rolling up the fabric like he usually does, grimly slogging through the extra weight as water soaks up his calves. The other pair he carries out to Jonny. “You have a house already,” he reminds Jonny as he hands the pants over. “A great big fancy one in Canada worth approximately the same amount as this entire building.”

Frowning, Jonny steps into the sweatpants like it’s nothing and continues dicking around on his phone. “I need another one,” he mutters. “Here in Chicago where people never leave me the fuck alone.”

“Is that all, princess?”

“And a dog. A fucking mean one, like a Rottweiler or a pit bull.”

Since both of them know none of this will ever happen, Patrick nods along and splashes toward the nightstand for his own cellphone. Far in the distance, he can already hear the kitchen landline ringing with the demanding tone reserved only for management. Jonny tells him the phone always sounds the same no matter who’s calling, but Patrick knows the difference. He’s never been wrong. “I’m calling management,” he sighs. “Don’t keep coach waiting or you’ll never hear the end of it.”

“He’s going to be pissed about this,” Jonny growls like the hypothetical dog he so very much wants to own. “Pre-season starts in two months.”

“It’s a bruise, Jonathan.”

“It’s my job, _Patrick_.”

Glaring mutinously at each other, they both begin to dial.


	6. The Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the ridiculous delay, everyone! My job being what it is, I got pretty busy after COVID-19 picked up speed. As recompense, I finished editing the final two chapters. Enjoy!

The media, being ravenous mangy alley cats sniffing for scraps, posts the story within half an hour. Stupid headlines like DROWNING IN LOVE? and TSUNAMI IN PARADISE make Patrick quietly seethe as smelly construction guys shuffle through their loft. They stomp around causing such a clatter that Dolores feels compelled to bother them every day for over a week. She makes no less than ten trips up to their floor, seventeen calls to their landline, and one ridiculous Skype conversation that ends with lawyers. Jonny endures all of this with quiet dignity counteracted by his ridiculous rage at being in any way incapacitated. Endless doctor’s appointments and physical therapy sessions confirm Jonny only suffered a deep bruise. It swells a particularly nasty purple over the next couple weeks, and Patrick does feel vaguely guilty when he notices how widespread the injury is.

Three weeks after the Incident, their old bed reappears alongside some hastily bought furniture and Jonny rotates his shoulder for fifteen minutes every hour. His dedication and discipline, while objectively sexy, is subjectively annoying.

Dolores’ lawyer delivers some lawsuit paperwork midway through the month, and Jonny spends five whole hours on the phone arguing with their own lawyer, citing the lack of damage to her apartment and the reality that their workers can be as noisy as they want during the daylight hours per city ordinance, before managing to squash the whole issue. Jonny still ends up signing a ridiculous check that he then violently stuffs in an envelope.

“We need to move,” Jonny says murderously.

Patrick wisely refuses to argue.

Instead he hunts for a new place to live while Jonny does his stupid exercises. Patrick finds an absolutely sick condo in Trump Tower, but Jonny takes one look at the name on the building and nopes out of the room. They yell the various pros and cons of moving into Trump owned property for the better part of four hours before Jonny uses his celebrity to shut the argument down hard. Apparently, he’s met Donald Trump before, and he has _opinions_.

He’s still looking for a new home when the doctors clear Jonny for rigorous activity and Jonny comes slinking into their bedroom like a panther on the prowl.

Patrick’s instantly wary. “What?”

“What do you think?” Jonny asks, already reaching for his pants. Patrick, whose ass still stings even after weeks of ointment and babying, slams into the headboard so hard some paint chips rain onto the bedspread. Jonny looks suitably outraged. “We just had that wall replaced!”

“No, nope, not happening,” is all Patrick can reply with. “You keep your dick away from my ass.”

“What, why?” Jonny scowls.

“Uh, because I’m fucking torn inside and it hurts? Like, I reopen that injury every time I take a dump, Jonny.”

Although Jonny will argue just about anything at the drop of a dime, he respects Patrick enough not to push the subject despite the visible bulge in his jeans. “Way to be sexy,” he grumbles as he sags onto the bed. His giant Canadian limbs take up far too much of the available real estate. “Remember the good old days when our lives seemed so damn easy?”

“You mean the day I threw up on you and we spent half the night in jail together? Oh yeah, real easy.” Jonny’s lips quirk a little, warming Patrick deep down where he knows that, whatever strange shit happens from now on, their foundation is still solid. “Any word from Dolores’ lawyer?”

“She got the check and is already unhappy. Something about damages for emotional distress.”

Patrick snorts. “From what? Our loud married sex?”

“Our crisis interrupted her daytime soaps.”

Patrick cannot, in good conscience, touch that with a ten-foot pole. He grimaces at nothing and once more laments the strange problems of wealthy people. Everyone wants something. Now that he’s wealthy by marriage, he fully expects awkward financial requests from people he hasn’t seen since middle school to come flooding in any day now. He has his mom screen his email, just in case. “How do you feel about duplexes?” he asks, changing the subject.

“No more close neighbors.”

“Right,” Patrick sighs. He clicks through a few more pages on his tablet morosely. “What about someplace without a gym?”

“Room for one?”

Patrick clicks the link and scrolls down to the particulars where the square footage alone answers that question. Definitely not enough for the comprehensive kind of gym Jonny needs. He sighs and admits, “Just some weights and a treadmill, if we sacrifice the guest room.”

“No.”

Well, that’s about all the patience Patrick has for house hunting today. He tosses the tablet onto the nightstand and crawls down the bed. Jonny hears him coming and lazily rolls onto his back despite how his feet hang over the edge. At least his shoulder is no longer a no-fly zone. He grumbles a little when Patrick lays there, but is still quick to drag Patrick closer. After arguments and waterbeds and lawsuits, cuddling Jonny is still the best part of Patrick’s day. “Love you,” he sighs.

“What the fuck is that black shit on the ceiling?” Jonny replies angrily.

Patrick hides a self-satisfied smile in the meat of Jonny’s chest. “Permanent marker.”

“Why is it on my ceiling?”

“Oh, it’s your ceiling now? What happened to ‘this is _our_ family, this is _our_ loft.’” Patrick puts in just enough effort to make quotes with his fingers before dropping his arm down hard on Jonny’s stomach.

Asshole doesn’t even grunt. “I bought the loft, it’s my goddamned ceiling, and if I wanted a pattern on there, it would be up there!”

“Huh, since it already _is_ up there, you must’ve wanted it an awful lot.”

“Patrick…”

That scolding tone is completely uncalled for considering Patrick is still a grown ass man despite his three-year old personality. He almost argues, except they just started cuddling, Patrick’s comfortable, and he really doesn’t want to move when their bickering escalates into World War 3. He moans and burrows into Jonny’s sweaty armpit. His husband smells like hard work in winter. “What does it matter if we’re moving anyway?”

A large hand settles in his hair. “You’re scrubbing it off.”

“Uh, it’s _permanent_ marker?”

“Then you’ll be scrubbing a long damn time,” Jonny decides mercilessly.

The ridiculousness of the situation—that anyone apart from Jonny will notice some tiny black spots on the ceiling, that Jonny is the only person in the whole world who feels bothered by something so small and refuses to back down—strikes Patrick in the soft bits. He’s gone on Jonny, he realizes, so gone he can no longer see the way back. All they do is argue. The one day of sex they managed to have since the wedding objectively kind of sucks because neither of them know the meaning of the word restraint. Jonny’s goddamn water bottle army sits sentinel on every flat surface in the room watching them bicker about permanent marker that Patrick put on the ceiling only because he knew how to push Jonny’s buttons and wanted to see Jonny push back.

Jonny’s perfect for him, Patrick has always known this. But, tilting his head to watch Jonny scowl irritably at the ceiling, he thinks that maybe he’s perfect for Jonny too. No one else in the universe will put up with Jonny and feel grateful for the privilege.

Snuggling that ridiculous body, Patrick figures he’s okay with admitting Jackie had their relationship pegged perfectly.

He’s not out of Jonny’s league at all.


	7. The First Anniversary

“Oh, this is absolutely lovely, sweetie, thank you,” grandma gushes even before they shuffle into the bedroom.

Jonny escorts her stiffly, smile as fixed as the wrinkled hand groping his ass. “Of course, ma’am,” he says because he’s still somewhat afraid of the tottering old woman. “I would never make you sleep in anything less.”

“What a generous young man,” grandma coos, her fingers locking down tight.

Patrick damn near giggles himself into a fit watching them navigate the large room with its equally large bed. He wouldn’t put it past grandma to try tumbling Jonny into the sheets. She spent an inordinate amount of time counting his praises during Christmas, her hands roaming unreservedly across his chest and arms. She even licked his neck, much to his immediate and, once they returned to the dubious privacy of their bedroom, vocal horror.

“Holy shit, did you see this view?” Erica shrieks from down the hall. The sudden banging of every door in existence makes Patrick grateful that Jonny rented out the whole villa.

“We all see the view,” Jackie huffs from her room next to grandma.

The floor to ceiling glass windows surrounding the various rooms all open onto a wide stone deck covered in beautiful crimson flowers. The warm Italian sky glitters with impending sunset, illuminating acres of rolling green fields and a private beach as white as snow. Patrick hates himself a little for appreciating how gorgeous Jonny looks surrounded by that particular shade of sunset red more than the exotic view itself.

Especially when Jonny jogs out of grandma’s room looking vaguely spooked.

“Thank you so much for this, dear,” Patrick’s mom says, her eyes all but shining with pink hearts while Patrick swallows his laughter into a façade of solemn dignity. Dad nods his agreement, his hand wrapped solidly around his wife’s wrist as if he expects her to lunge for Jonny any second.

Since his man is still very much off limits to everyone younger than grandma, Patrick scowls at his mom and waves her off. “I picked literally everything about this trip.”

“And Jonathan paid,” she rebuts sternly. “Do say thank you properly, Patrick.”

“Yeah, say thank you, Patrick,” Jonny says with a big smirk on his face. Patrick wants to both slap his smug husband and kiss the tiny worry wrinkle between his eyebrows. Domesticity apparently includes just as much exasperation as fondness.

He grudgingly smacks a wet, sloppy kiss on Jonny’s cheek and glares at his giggling mother as dad drags her away.

“Has everyone grabbed a room?” Jonny asks beneath his breath.

“I guess?” Patrick agrees, glancing around for stragglers. Grandma still has her door open, but she’s so busy stroking the bedspread imagining things Patrick never wants to know, that Patrick doubts she remembers the two men awkwardly loitering in the hallway. All the other bedroom doors are shut. “Yeah, looks like everyone is settled.”

“That’s good,” Jonny says with a small sigh.

His short hair has gone all floppy in the heat, slick and dark with sweat, and Patrick doesn’t resist the urge to stroke Jonny like a particularly cute puppy. Watching Jonny sag in relief and shuffle closer will never get old. Patrick still wonders what he did in a past life to deserve this maniac, who willingly spent several thousand dollars on a last-minute trip to Italy for Patrick’s whole family simply because Patrick asked. Jonny doesn’t even know about the bet Patrick lost or why Patrick wanted family to come on what is ostensibly their first anniversary celebration. Jonny agreed only because Jonny’s a nutjob.

“Any idea which room is ours?” the nutjob in question inquires softly, pale eyelashes fluttering the longer Patrick pets his hair.

Patrick leans up to kiss him, just because. “No.” They kiss again, slightly longer but still chaste, before Patrick finds the will to pull away. Jonny watches him do so with warm velvet eyes, his big hands wrapping around Patrick’s hips possessively. “Probably the smallest room,” Patrick admits with the slightest hint of embarrassment, because he can’t help that his family all take shameless advantage of the celebrity Patrick still can’t believe he married.

“Good,” Jonny says again, totally unbothered despite fronting all the money for this ostentatious vacation. “As long as everyone’s comfortable.”

“You mean as long as they left us a King bed.”

Jonny quirks a suggestive eyebrow. “I’d take a Queen.”

“Oh my god, why would you bring that up in public,” Patrick says, face warming to unsafe temperatures. He glances again at grandma who, mercifully, remains oblivious. “For the last time, that was a total accident.”

“Bullshit.”

Patrick frowns up at the asshole and wonders at what his life would be like if he became a widow. “Okay, so technically it was intentional, but only because Jessica and I have the same size thighs and I wanted to make sure the garters would fit before I bought them as her birthday gift. You _were not_ supposed to see me testing them out!”

“No one buys those for their sister,” Jonny pronounces with unfortunately sound logic.

“Well, she wanted them and they’re expensive.” Patrick refuses to feel ashamed. “Besides, I’m the bisexual person in this relationship. You’re not supposed to like that stuff.”

Jonny’s hands flex around his hips. “Drag queens are a thing,” he argues mildly, gaze keen. “Granted, nothing I particularly liked before I started dating these curls.” A thick finger casually reaches up to twirl one in front of Patrick’s face and, okay, that does make Patrick blush pretty strongly. He’s been told more than once that he’d look good in drag. By people other than Jonny even, which assures Patrick it’s not a biased opinion.

Still. “So you’re saying you want to cross-dress for me?”

Blinking, Jonny stares down at him in open surprise. “Do…you want me to?”

Patrick tries to picture Captain Serious in drag and snorts a loud, inappropriate laugh. What a horrifying image. “Oh my god, no, you’d look ridiculous!”

“You looked good though.”

The fading blush on Patrick’s cheeks deepens. “That was the garters, okay. Which is why I bought them. For _Jessica_.”

“I bought Italy,” Jonny claims with renewed fire, as if money is somehow the issue here. It’s kind of flattering how seriously Jonny is taking this. Even after a terrible hockey season that ended far too early, and grandma demanding Jonny sit next to her on the plane, and the crazy time difference that left Jonny’s weird sleep schedule dragging ass, somehow Patrick still revs that high-performance engine.

Arguing for arguments sake, Patrick says, “Okay, first off, buying whole countries is not a thing that exists and, even if it were, your measly ten mill a year cannot afford it. Secondly, even if you did buy a whole country, that does not give you the right to demand a man wear stockings for your sexual pleasure.” Liar, he tells himself shamefully. He would totally wear whatever Jonny wanted even without country-buying on the table, because Jonny’s gorgeous and Patrick gets off on thinking about how much Jonny wants him.

“What’s the big deal? You’re too sexy not to wear them.”

“Calling me sexy will not get you what you want,” Patrick lies even as he swoons into Jonny’s chest, hands creeping over all those glorious hockey muscles, because Patrick is nothing if not easy for this ridiculous beast.

Leaning down for a nuzzle, Jonny purrs, “Will it at least get me sex?”

Flushing, caught on the idea of making dirty love with his husband in an Italian villa of all places, Patrick hurriedly admits, “I have another pair in my suitcase.”

“Bedroom,” Jonny growls. Italian humidity being worse than Chicago, both of them are already slick with sweat, and Patrick whimpers to feel Jonny’s big hands sliding down into his pants for a judicious squeeze. He tugs until their mouths meet tongues first and spend a few blissful minutes kissing like porn in the hallway.

Just as Patrick is ready to mount Jonny on the cherry wood floor, they hear a voice say, “Oh goodness, you naughty things.”

They smack apart to see grandma watching them with a big smile. “Uh, grandma—”

“Not to worry, I won’t tell,” she says with a cheerful wink.

Heat dropping to a low simmer, Patrick grabs Jonny’s hand and drags him down the hall hoping to see an open bedroom door. He pretends not to hear grandma’s cackling laughter echoing behind them. “I am so sorry,” he tells the floor.

“She creeps me out,” Jonny replies flatly. “Where’s our bedroom?”

They stop in the hallway and look around before turning to each other. A moment of silent communication later, they jog down the stairs into the open plan living room where another wide veranda overlooks the purpling sunset sands. A generously curving cliff makes for excellent cover for what they plan to do out there. “Grab a few towels, Jonny.”

“Stockings,” he reminds Patrick with a heated stare, lips shiny from kisses.

Patrick fumbles on his way to the suitcases left abandoned in the foyer and watches Jonny disappear into the laundry room, mouth parted in surprise. He was going to put on his swim trunks, because sand in weird places meant sand in his clothes forever. Beach sex would absolutely ruin the delicate stocking fabric.

Then again, his husband is rich. Does he care?

The definition of hot and bothered, Patrick throws his suitcase open and rips the stockings from their packaging. They roll up his legs smooth as silk, garters clicking into place, and Patrick swallows hard, listening to the fading footsteps of his family overhead intermixed with the quiet waves on the shore and Jonny’s rustling one room over. Shirt off and underwear thrown aside, he’s next to naked in the living room and excited about it. If any of his family comes downstairs, if they struggle to fall asleep and wander outside to admire the scenery, hell, if any of them bother opening their windows in this extreme Italian heat, they’ll no doubt hear Patrick making some very embarrassing noises for many hours to come.

Patrick shuffles outside, shivering as his stockinged feet sink into the powdery sand.

They’ll fall asleep on the couch, he thinks, picking up speed. Wake up at some ungodly hour hating the world. Jonny will do his stupid exercises while Patrick makes breakfast. Then they’ll go out and see Italy, spending the last month Jonny has before the season starts indulging Patrick’s weird family.

Their weird family.

Grinning, Patrick admits to himself that he’s happy Jackie pushed him through those church doors last year. If she hadn’t, then he wouldn’t have married the giant goof thundering out of the villa like a stampeding rhino, breath audibly thick. Patrick turns to see his husband stalking across the sand in nothing but a pair of swim trunks the same lovely red as the fading sunset. When Patrick crooks a finger in sexy invitation, Jonny’s usual intensity multiplies into half-lidded eyes and a visible tent in those trunks. A purr Patrick will deny to his dying breath rumbles up his throat, and he watches Jonny walk toward him wondering if this is how Jonny felt watching Patrick walk down the aisle. In a strange, perhaps quite literal way, Patrick feels as if his home is eating up the distance between them, arms open wide. Patrick wants to burrow inside and never come out.

It's a heady thought to realize that now, because of the giant rock on his finger and the fierce love shining out of Jonny’s handsome face, Patrick can have this forever.


End file.
